


Mixtapes and Mixed Signals (Or, The Corrected Stages of Grief)

by kitsunegari101



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Gen, M/M, my friends and i just have a lot of marker feels ok, this is v sad im sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunegari101/pseuds/kitsunegari101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First shot: Mark Cohen, a week after Roger Davis' death. Pan left to the couch where Roger should still be, leaning back against the arm with his guitar (slightly out of tune) and strumming only the first few bars of Musetta's Waltz. Mark can't help but feel completely empty, as irritating as Roger could be sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mixtapes and Mixed Signals (Or, The Corrected Stages of Grief)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few scenes from the boho boys' life; mostly Mark dealing with his feelings for Roger and the fact that his friend is not-so-slowly dying.

When Roger dies, Mark knows. He'd been there the entire time, holding him as he coughed and shivered and using a cool, damp washcloth to try and cool the fever blazing through his friend's virus-ravaged body. The others were there too (Collins looking like he was about to cry, Mimi's arms wrapped around one of the man's as she herself was breaking down; Maureen and Joanne just  _looking_ with that thousand-yard stare), of course they were, but they didn't  _hear_ Roger's last breath shuddering out of his lungs, didn't  _see_ the light go out of his eyes, didn't  _feel_ his hand loosen its grip in Mark's sweater as the virus finally took hold. _  
_

Dimly, Mark was aware of Mimi's hand closing Roger's eyes as the tears flowed down her cheeks. He knew Collins had slung an arm around his shoulders as the sobs shook through him, could hear Joanne trying to soothe Maureen though her own voice was choked and the words were barely intelligible. But Mark himself? All he felt was the understanding that his friend and sometimes lover would never be sitting on the window seat when Mark finally emerged from his bedroom, bleary-eyed and squinting in the morning light after sleeping for an entire day. He'd never hear any of the badly-disguised innuendos under a stupid joke in a voice that was slightly too loud because Roger had been out all night drinking with the others after a gig at the Pyramid Club. He wouldn't live to see Mark's finished film.

Mark would never get to remind him to take his AZT and he would never get that  _face_ that was so damn  _specific_ to Roger in return. Roger would never look at him like he was insane for finding a lottery card on the ground and actually daring to hopeagainst hope that they'd win at all, and then laughing the laugh that had always sounded a little bit like music to Mark even though it was annoying when they actually  _did_ win (about 25 dollars, but it was fucking _something_ ) and helping him get the groceries home before falling onto the couch with him and still laughing and kissing all over Mark's face wherever he could reach through the squirming and Roger had never really been that type of person except with Mark. _  
_

In that instant, he stared the abyss in its dark, probably non-existent face and he  _knew,_ as horrible and fleeting as the sudden acceptance was...

Roger Davis was gone and he'd never see him again.

Wait--

That couldn't be right, could it?

Collins' hand squeezed on his shoulder and he, in his infinite (if occasionally misguided) wisdom, said quietly that it was okay, that humans weren't built to withstand their best friend dying right in front of them, but how could Mark believe him? Roger was still here, he  _had_ to be, he  _needed_ to be here to help Mark not be so damn neurotic and numb all the time.

They had all needed him in some capacity, but Mark had needed him the most. It was some weird, fucked-up symbiotic relationship, but it had worked for them.

The second thing Mark Cohen realized (though at the time he didn't even know he'd realized it) was that denial sets in so damn fast, salving the wounds or at least covering them to be ripped open later (over and over again, Mark would find out, by the most insignificant things).

He leaned down slowly, not even feeling the tears that had by now dried, and pressed his forehead to Roger's, somehow managing to gasp out the last words he'd ever say to him in a voice that already sounded worn out and rusty:

"I'll check on you later. Change your mind. You have to get out of the house."


End file.
